


A la folie

by TeaHouseMoon



Series: Ficlets [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fucking, Jealous John, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poppy inspired me, Rimming, Sex, Super jealous John, i dont know why i wrote this, john is jealous trash, she inspires me every day tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 19:26:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6623239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jealous John on a strop + sex, is there anything better than this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A la folie

**Author's Note:**

> Another PWP inspired by Twitter convos with Poppy. I can't help it, it seems.
> 
>  
> 
> Written and posted on my phone, when I should have been busy with other things, so excuse typos and nonsense...

“So who was it. Yesterday.”

John has Sherlock’s wrists in his grasp. Pinned; on the mattress, over his head, elbows bent. Sherlock feels the strong fingers digging into his skin, feels dizzy. Can barely hear the words.

“Who was – what.”

John is looking down at him, into his half-lidded eyes. “Last night, at Barts,” he repeats, with veiled annoyance. His fingers around Sherlock’s wrists give a squeeze. “Who was it that you were talking to.”

Sherlock’s eyelids want to drop, and he lets them, for one moment, though he knows he will receive a growl, at the very least, if he doesn't respond. He's so aware of the arch of his back in the position he's in; so aware of his nipples, tightly peaked up against the cotton of his white t shirt.

“Nurse. Had to consult – for the amputated leg case.”

“What did he say.”

Sherlock closes his eyes briefly, then starts to reply – “That amputation occurred three days prior, although it kept very well if we think-“ but John interrupts him.

“No. What did he say to you, after. He was smiling.”

Sherlock blinks for one moment, finally opens his eyes all the way, and looks at John. His face is serious and frowning; Sherlock feels his own cheeks flush. Jealous, jealous John.

“He didn't ask for my number, if that's what you're implying.”

John's eyes fix on his, round and unmoving, and cobalt blue. He's quiet for a few moments. Sherlock squirms a little with his back - he's desperate to be fucked, desperate for sex with John, but John won't be hurried. He knows.  
John’s jealousy is intense, fierce. Sherlock’s experienced it before,several times, and he knows that it's something he needs to accept if he wants this, with John. There's very little John will tolerate when it comes to Sherlock’s contact with other people.  
Secretly, Sherlock loves it.

He pulls on his wrists, he wants to free himself and touch John’s face.

“Be still.” John's voice is rough.

“Kiss me.”

John hesitates for a moment but then complies. He kisses Sherlock, open mouthed, deeply, still holding the wrists captive and Sherlock grimaces a little at the position because he's used to touching John, but John won't let go, and Sherlock is not as strong as he believes himself to be. John is stronger.  
He's breathless when John lets his mouth go, a few long minutes later. Against him, he can feel the hardness in John’s boxers, and it makes him dizzy with want.

“He better not come near you again,” John is growling, almost to himself.

“John…”

“Don't want him talking to you.” John has started moving against him – pelvis against his, hardness against hardness through the cloth of their underwear. Slow, grinding, exactly in the right spot where Sherlock is most sensitive, and he feels like he could come, really soon. When John lets his wrists go to plant both his hands on the mattress next to Sherlock’s shoulders, Sherlock reaches out to touch a strong bicep.

“Please, John…”

“Who said you could move?” John growls against his cheek. “Hands over your head, now.”

Sherlock hears the tone: there's no point in protesting. He doesn't really want to; he raises his arms, puts them back into place. It tightens his shirt over his nipples, and he moans quietly.

“Hear you.” John is still grinding against him, cotton clad cock sliding against cock; Sherlock arches his neck, exhales another moan to do as he was asked. John pushes again, just like that, just there, and Sherlock has to stop his eyes from rolling back.

“Like this?” He asks, voice trembling. “Don't you want to fuck me?”

“Hmm.” John growls again, against the side of Sherlock’s neck. His eyes are closed now; he's still frowning. He gives another thrust, and, ah, Sherlock almost gives in and lets it go. A sharp bite just over his jugular makes him inhale quickly, makes him tense and alert once again.

“With my mouth,” John growls quietly on his lips. Sherlock returns his look: this time he wants his eyes to roll back. Oral sex with John is the best, most intense thing he's ever experienced.

John is quick to move down his body. He gets rid of Sherlock’s underwear just as quickly; he kisses his hips, the bones, the trail of hair and, once, Sherlock’s penis. It's not about that though – and Sherlock braces himself.  
John's tongue is warm, strong, experienced. It licks and pushes and rubs, slow and intense, moves just like when it's in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock soon struggles to keep his legs open, struggles to stay still. His hands want to grab and squeeze and pull; he cries out, loudly, moans and sighs, and then sobs. The pleasure is right there and John is so good and he's rimming him and squeezing his cock and Sherlock’s abdomen spasms, his hips squirm and he sobs, he wants to come so much it hurts, it hurts, it hurts…

He's still breathing really hard when the room stops spinning. His mouth is open and his chest heaving; his cheeks are on fire. He can't move but he feels John’s hands, solid and firm, on his leg, helping him wrap it around John's hip. He's relaxed and slack, but John's cock still feels huge and hard when it slides inside his body, a sharp, painful stab of pleasure against his prostate that makes Sherlock’s eyes water.

“You're beautiful,” John whispers against his lips, and then kisses a tear just starting a trail down Sherlock’s cheekbone. “And you're mine.”

Sherlock’s arms, leaden-heavy, are gently coaxed back down, his hands settle on the sides of John’s face; to hold on for the ride, when John starts to fuck him to find his own orgasm inside Sherlock’s body.

“I'm yours,” Sherlock says, on John’s lips. “I'm yours.”

 


End file.
